


a collection of miniatures

by notcaycepollard



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 01:57:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5725459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr fics based on <a href="http://notcaycepollard.tumblr.com/post/137275536876/send-me-characters-and-a-letter-and-ill-write">this</a> prompt. Various, probably mostly Skoulson. Will I fill em all in? WHO KNOWS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. on the edge of consciousness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Victoria Hand/Isabelle Hartley)

Nobody knows that Vic is _soft_.

She does it deliberately, of course. Deal with enough assholes like Blake and Garrett, and anyone would wrap themselves in an exterior hard as stone. Izzy doesn’t mind; she loves Agent Hand, loves her tough and bloodlessly brusque demeanor, loves the way she can make a room of agents snap to attention. But at home, at _home_ , Victoria peels off her suits, layer by layer. Hangs them in the bedroom closet very neatly, takes the glass of scotch Izzy’s already poured her, curls up on the couch in pink flannel pajamas. 

“Bad day?” Izzy asks, touches her hair, and Vic makes a small noise in the back of her throat. It starts out cranky and ends with a gentle exhalation of breath as Izzy strokes her fingers more deliberately through Vic’s hair, just the way she knows she likes it. She likes this, too, the pink streaks, even with the mess it makes. Both their sinks, and all their pillowcases, and the vast majority of their towels, they’re all stained pink. It’s just another thing Izzy loves.

“Bad day,” Vic murmurs. “Better now. To, you know, an extent.”

It’s too, too easy to let Vic fall asleep on her right there on the couch, her glass slipping slowly from her fingers, re-runs of Masterchef playing with the volume down, even though Izzy knows Vic will wake up groggy and disgruntled and demanding to know why they’re not in their bed like they should be. In rest, Vic’s face relaxes, softens, and Izzy can’t help it, just stares at her for one long moment with an expression she knows must be lovestruck and foolish.

“I can tell you’re watching me,” Vic murmurs, her eyes still closed and voice soft with exhaustion, and Izzy just laughs, leans down for a kiss, lets herself give in to the easy pull of sleep herself. 

(Later, when things are bad, when things are really bad, Izzy has no space left for softness. She hardens her heart as best she can, packs away Vic’s suits and pajamas with ducks on them and half-empty bottles of dye, can’t fall asleep no matter whether she’s in a bed or on a couch or staring unseeingly at a SHIELD badge that doesn’t mean anything, anymore. 

But at what she knows is probably the end, it’s not the pain or the terror or the blood that she feels. At the end, at the edge of consciousness, it’s Vic’s face that she sees, gentle and loving and tender, and nothing at all hurts, and everything is so, so soft.)


	2. subtle kindnesses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Phil Coulson/Skye | Daisy Johnson)

It starts out tiny. The kind of thing you could think is just someone being nice (and he is, he’s _so nice_ , Skye doesn’t know how to respond to it. Nobody’s nice to her like this, not without wanting something, but this doesn’t feel like wanting at all). But it is, it just _is_. A smile. Words of encouragement. The way he looks at her, like he actually believes in her. 

Then it’s big gestures, things that make her chest feel tight. Forgiveness, and an offer of _help_ , and the kind of information about her family she thought she’d never find. A badge. Coulson’s trust. They’re all things he gives her like she’s earned it, like it costs him nothing to be this kind to her, and Skye still doesn’t understand it. Worries, still, it’ll get taken away. (It always gets taken away, eventually.)

It doesn’t, though. She waits and waits for the penny to drop, for the decanter to break, for the call from the orphanage. Instead: red cherry licorice, and a hug that takes her breath away, and the keys to a car so she can visit a man who used to be a father, in a life different than this one. The chance to build a team of her own, like he believes in her this much, like he thinks she can be a _leader_ , someday (and she swears, she swears, she’ll be a leader like him).

She knows he’s questioning himself now, wondering if he’s even a good man, still, after all that’s happened. She doesn’t know how to show him the kindness that’s the core of him, the kindness that he gives her so effortlessly. There are no huge gestures she can make here, no grand words or declarations that will help. The little things - fresh cookies, a joke she knows he’d enjoy - they feel too insignificant in the face of it all. All she can do is what he’s done all along. A smile, and words of encouragement, and she hopes that when she looks at him, he can see how much she believes in the good in him, hopes it shines from her eyes.

(She hopes, and doesn’t hope, that maybe he sees the other thing too. The words she can’t say, yet.)


End file.
